Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.
Six
Ron: Self-Reliance
The Christmas fruitcake tasted foreign in his mouth. A bit stale from the napkin in which he’d stored it like a priceless jewel underneath his pillow. The familiar spices mingled with the salty spray from the roiling ocean “ or from his tears, Ron admitted with some chagrin. But there was no one looking over his shoulder, judging him, as he perched high above the rocky shoreline that hugged Shell Cottage to its very bosom.
After a sleepless night, the sunrise was full of vibrant slashes of cranberry red, signifying that stormy weather was on the horizon. A tiny slash of sand was revealed at low tide and his brother, Bill, and his new wife had gone on and on about how they would invite the entire Weasley family to a clam bake in the summer. In their enthusiasm, it wasn’t difficult to picture glowing faces laughing around a huge bonfire.
In a land torn by bitter warfare, it was a daydream to cherish just as they clung to how perfect their lives had been before. Unrealism in the face of unreality, there was no other way to categorize it.
With a pang, he longed to share that thought with Hermione but she was far away. Lost in the murky mists of his stupid anger and, try as he might, he could not see the way to win her back again. As if she had ever been his really; he’d been much too tongue-tied to come right out and ask her to be his girlfriend. But in his heart, she was his “ and right now, all he had were those memories.
Another bite of the fruitcake crumbled in his mouth as he identified the final component: ashes from the bridges he’d burned with everyone he held dear, family included. Bill had assured him that all recriminations would melt away if he simply accompanied them to the Winter Solstice feast at the Burrow. After all, their mum had been worrying herself to the bone about his whereabouts. What better reassurance than to have him standing in the flesh before her?
Tempting as the offer was, Ron had declined. As much as he missed the rest of his family, he knew that their second or third questions would be about Harry and Hermione and he was not ready to face such a tribunal.
Bill had returned with all manner of news to share. First was to apologize for the small pile of lonely gifts he’d had to leave behind at the Burrow. Presents that had been addressed to Ron in the vain hope that he would find his way home in time for Christmas.
“There was no way to smuggle them out,” Bill attested. “Sooner or later, Mum would ferret out who’d done it and she’d be here on our doorstep.” At the dejected look on Ron’s face, he added, “Was I wrong to put your peace of mind above all else?”
Ron shook his overgrown red mane as he stared at his feet. If he wasn’t such a gutless git, he never would’ve found himself in this situation at all. “I’m not ready to face them yet,” he muttered to no one in particular.
“Ginny had some startling tales about life at Hogwarts,” Bill continued. “Not that she said much in front of Mum and Dad, but she found a moment to take me aside and fill me in. Said she owed it to the Order, at the very least.”
Ron turned eyes full of concern to search his brother’s face. “I can’t image Snape as headmaster “ except perhaps in my darkest nightmares.”
“That was a bit of a shocker, really. But somehow, they’ve managed to take it in stride. Revived that Dark Arts study group of Harry’s --”
“Dumbledore’s Army,” Ron supplied.
“Exactly. Only it’s more a group of insurgents now. Headed up by none other than -- hold on to your hippogriff, now “ Neville Longbottom!”
“Bloody hell! Neville used to see Snape as his boggart. Remus made a right funny lesson out of it once, but Neville’s fear was real.”
“Neville’s determined to confront his fears head on then. Ginny said they’ve had to limit themselves to only those students who were part of the original group; it’s next to impossible to determine where everyone else’s true loyalties lie.”
“They’re going to pay dearly if Snape gets wind of it.” Ron bleakly recalled the dour potion master's uncanny ability to worm his greasy nose wherever it wasn’t wanted. Why it was almost as bad as Moody’s magical eye that could see through solid objects! Instantly, he regretted the comparison as it brought up buried feelings of loss.
“They already have. Snape caught them sneaking into his office to steal Gryffindor’s sword.”
“Morons!” Ron echoed the same sentiments from when he’d overheard a similar tale. Or was it just that without that effing Horcrux around his neck he was finally free to express his true feelings? “What good would it do them with no idea of how to get it to Harry? Even if they’d been successful.”
“It seemed the ultimate act of defiance, I suppose. Snape turned them over to Hagrid for punishment.”
“Hagrid?” Ron’s eyes fairly bulged from his head. “What sort of punishment could Hagrid impose? Sloughing through the Forbidden Forest might be miserable, but it’s hardly torture!”
Bill nodded with a grim set to his lips. “Ginny arrived at the same conclusion. That’s one of the things she most wanted to share with me.”
“So we’re to think Snape’s gone soft? I’m not taking that micky!”
Neither was Ginny, Bill explained at length as he described how Snape barricaded himself in the Headmaster’s Tower and wasn’t seen by anyone for days on end. How his ill-gotten throne at the teachers’ table was more often empty than not. He’d always been a cagey sort, but he’d taken malicious relish in doling out punishments, gleefully pouncing on any infraction which crossed his path.
Ron recalled the satisfied smirk on the man’s face as he blasted rose bushes amongst snogging couples outside the Yule Ball. There had been a dark delight shining in his eyes that night.
“It’s Ginny’s belief that he’s come to loathe his position as Headmaster.”
“It’s no secret Snape’s always hated his students,” Ron volunteered. “Not even Hermione could impress him with her encyclopedic knowledge.”
“Something’s changed for him, though. And if we could only place our finger on it, we might have a clue as to what’s really going on behind the scenes at Hogwarts,” Bill concluded. “You know how observant our little sister is about tiny details -- especially those we’d like to keep hidden.”
Ron agreed wholeheartedly. Another reason why foregoing the family holiday gatherings had been inevitable. Based upon Ginny’s conjectures, he wasn’t sure what to think of Snape “ nothing new there “ but was equally uncertain that they had the full picture by any means, either.
“Here, I didn’t come empty-handed though,” Bill offered as he placed a small bundle in Ron’s lap. “Sorry I couldn’t justify taking anything else for just Fleur and me.”
Inside was half a loaf of his mother’s famous Yuletide fruitcake and a stack of sweets.
“I’m fairly certain I grabbed the last of the chocolate frogs,” Bill confided lowly. “I know they’re your faves.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Ron managed through a suddenly tight throat.
He’d sliced off thin slices of fruitcake to last him as long as possible. It conjured warm evenings spent at the Burrow when his deepest worry was how to complete one meaningless school assignment or another. He’d managed to stretch the slices out for almost a week, but today he brushed the final crumbs into the steel grey breakers below.
He had only one more chocolate frog left after this one, he sighed. Reverently, he unwrapped the crinkly foil and allowed the stiff wind to send it dancing like a bright butterfly among the whitecaps. Placing his thumb firmly on the hind leg to avoid any mishaps, he bit off the head and savored the velvety chocolate melting in his mouth. With smaller and smaller bites, he prolonged the pleasure as much as he could until he was staring down into Dumbledore’s sparkling blue eyes.
He’d never been particularly close to the famous wizard. No heart-to-heart chats in his office like Harry’d enjoyed. For Ron, being summoned to the Headmaster’s office only meant one thing: punishment was imminent. Yet he found himself yearning to speak with his former professor more than anything. Perhaps in his wisdom, Dumbledore could help him to find a way to untangle the mess he’d created single-handedly. If he hadn’t given Harry much to go on for his final assignment, perhaps he could offer a few words to hapless Ron instead.
The Deluminator he’d inherited was a familiar weight in Ron’s trouser pocket, bringing a hesitant smile to his lips. Somehow Dumbledore had known of the Weasley men’s obsession with all manner of trinkets and toys.
It had proven right handy, too, when he’d wandered off along the first road leading away from that accursed campsite. Smack into a gang of Snatchers as he’d been too preoccupied to take stock of his surroundings before Disapparating. After a frenzied escape, the Deluminator had somehow allowed him to find his way back to the same hillside, but Harry and Hermione were long gone by then.
At that point, he was still inclined to tell them what a pair of toerags they were; but when he tried the Deluminator again, it hadn’t worked as before.
With the first drops of frigid rain against his woefully inadequate windbreaker, Ron began to have second thoughts. Not that the heat of anger had dissipated enough for him to admit this to himself. Only in retrospect had his actions seemed those of a sulky, petulant child.
He burned with shame every time he recalled how he’d countered all of his mother’s earlier arguments by saying that he was of age “ and man enough to undertake the journey at hand. Bollocks! He and Harry “ and even Hermione, if she was honest with herself “ were playing hide-and-seek with the Grim Reaper himself. A pointless game, if ever there was one.
Were they any closer to solving the wretched puzzle of the Horcruxes? Not really. The books Hermione had smuggled from Hogwarts only gave them an academic sort of knowledge “ practically useless in the real world. Hadn’t she learned that hard truth yet?
So they knew what the ruddy things were! Big deal. Dumbledore’s summary and Harry’s first-hand account of neutralizing Riddle’s diary had given them that much. Did they know how to destroy the ruddy things? No. What kind of book tells you how to create a thing and then not how to destroy it? One that wants to lead you astray, was the inevitable conclusion. Which, of course, explained why Dumbledore had removed those books from the library in the first place.
It was like knowing a curse without the counter-curse. You could create mayhem but not restore the peace.
That is if they ever figured out how to find the cursed objects in the first place. Why they’d just go rapping on doors at random. “Excuse me, sir, madam, but would you happen to have one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes gathering dust in your attic?”
Now that was a recipe for disaster. Maybe an hour until a phalanx of Death Eaters blasted the three of them into atoms.
It was at this point in his internal dialogue that morning that Ron had concluded he was lost in the bargain. On the far side of the ridge from the sodding campsite was a muddy country lane that could be anywhere on the effing map. After a few minutes’ walk, the desolate fields surrounding him were the nondescript brown of mown hay. Had it not been raining intermittently for the past week, they would have been covered in a white dusting of snow. Either way, no landmarks.
The landscape over the next rise was much the same except for a grayish structure along the roadside which turned out to be a deserted bus shelter. At least it would shield him from the downpour which had started to trail in small, miserable rivulets down his back.
He tried to blow some warmth into his bloodless hands as he settled his backside against the only portion of the rickety bench that was still dry. For a split second, he considered calling for the Knight Bus “ only to conclude that the new conductor was just as likely to be a Death Eater trainee than not. They’d Imperiused Stan Shunpike, hadn’t they?
Perhaps he could purchase a bus ticket with the few Muggle coins which each of them kept for emergencies. To where, was the question.
In the dingy half-light, it was difficult to tell just what was posted on the shelter’s walls. Uncertain of what tracing spells might be about, he didn’t dare light his wand tip. If only he had some ordinary matches, he considered briefly.
Not a good idea inside a wooden shack, his mother’s voice rose from his conscience. He doubted the rain-soaked planks would do anything other than smoke. Still, it would draw others to investigate.
How about a cigarette lighter, then? Ron considered the gadget he’d seen in Muggle billboards. They looked remarkably like that Deluminator-thingy of Dumbledore’s. Unconsciously, he fingered the very object inside his jacket pocket.
Having slowly grown accustomed to the low light, Ron detected a rusted light fixture hanging crookedly from the ceiling. He pointed the Deluminator at it and clicked. Nothing happened.
He rose to his full height and peered up into the lamp more carefully. Broken glass on the outside, but the bulb inside seemed to be intact. He recalled that was the most important factor from Hermione’s attempts to explain electricity to his father. He ignored the sharp bite of regret as he shoved all thoughts of Hermione forcefully aside.
Positioning the Deluminator directly below the fixture, Ron clicked again. This time he was rewarded with a sharp flash of light before the bulb exploded! The tinkle of broken glass fell to the floor as he shook his wet fringe, reminding him that the only thing that could make this day worse was if it was hailing in the bargain.
Was it his imagination, or had he seen a faded road map on the far wall? He felt his way blindly until his fingers detected a frame bolted securely to the wall.
He closed his eyes against the purple spots still coloring his vision and allowed his sight to return to normal. Endless minutes later, he was peering into an illegible bird’s nest of faintly colored lines snaking off in all directions. It was too dim to read any of the place names, though.
Not that he had any idea where to go. Too many questions at the Burrow; and Hogwarts was overrun by the enemy. He could visit Bill at Shell Cottage, he reminded himself, if only he had some idea where it was located. Not having ever visited, he couldn’t picture it to Apparate directly there, either.
If only he could find it on a map, he might have a fighting chance. Impromptu Apparation into places only seen on a diagram had been part of his licensing examination. A wrinkle which had initially stymied him as he’d had no advance preparation. But his nervousness had been unnecessary as he reappeared seamlessly in the broom cupboard one story below at the Ministry. He was fairly certain that a similar technique over longer distances would be much more challenging.
So what if he Splinched himself again? He rightly well deserved it for being such a sodding wankpot. Perhaps Fleur would know how to administer first aid before he rendered himself unconscious from the pain. The two missing fingernails from his earlier mishap throbbed in dull rhythm to the ache in his chest.
Only if ‘desperation’ were one of the three D’s of Apparation would he have a chance, he noted glumly. Desolation, devastation, delumination. The mantra played over and over inside his skull as he absently fingered the very gadget more and more rapidly inside his pocket.
He squinted through the waning daylight but the map was nothing more than meaningless tracings. He had a vague idea that Shell Cottage was somewhere to the south, but without knowing where he was in the first place, it was a doubly hopeless task.
“How to find Shell Cottage?” Ron muttered absently, not realizing he’d said the words aloud. Much to his amazement, the Deluminator felt hot enough in his pocket that he initially thought the fabric might catch fire. In the open air, it glowed a ghostly pale blue. Even that soon faded as he stared blankly at it.
Damn Dumbledore, and his obsession with riddles! Why couldn’t he -- just as a novelty, mind you “ have included the barking instruction manual? Ron ground his teeth in frustration, only to make his jaw ache into the bargain.
He could just see the headlines now: Clueless Berk Holds Winter at Bay with the Heat of Anger Alone. Right catchy for an epitaph. Why minstrels would sing songs about the travails of Ron the Irresolute. An appendix would be added to The Tales of Beedle the Bard to record a cautionary tale about the dangers of losing your temper. He barely caught himself before a watery sigh turned into a sob.
Think of the solution, or so the old proverb went. Firstly, he needed a map that showed the whole of Britain. Then some indication of where he was as a starting point. Was it his imagination or did the road tracings on the map suddenly seem clearer?
He drew close to the wall again, ignoring the fine curtain of mist that was leeching through the cracks. The Muggle bus routes were marked and, yes, there was a faint arrow to show where he was. The middle of effing nowhere with no buses that turned south until he got to the nearest city.
Yet there was an intersection not too far to the west of here. It was impossible to tell whether it was a road, a path, or a track for moving livestock from one field to another, Ron mused, as he traced a line along the length of it. When his finger reached the edge of the frame, the Deluminator in his pocket grew warm once more.
Feeling like he was grasping at his last lifeline, Ron withdrew the shiny object for a closer look. There was nothing to see this time, but it was definitely warmer and heavier in his hand. As if it was trying to get his attention.
Bringing it nearer to the edge of the faded map, he clicked only to be met with disappointment. “Would it kill you to do something useful?” he hissed. “Or are you as much a useless appendage as I am?”
He closed his eyes against the burning sting even as he remembered that such a cruel joke would be more in keeping with Snape’s style, not Dumbledore’s.
“I need to find Shell Cottage!” he issued through gritted teeth.
There was no mistaking it this time. The Deluminator had grown heavier in his hand. He drew it close to the edge of the map and repeated lowly, “Shell Cottage to the south.”
When he clicked, the weathered map seemed to condense to a smaller scale as it scrolled down to show the lower half of the island. The name of a single village along the rugged Cornish coastline drew him like a magnet: Tinworth. A half remembered memory that it was a spot popular with wizards, but that Bill had promised Mum to add a Fidelius Charm to appease her long litany of worries.
Bloody hell! If that was the case, he would just as likely transport himself over the roiling sea if he’d tried to Apparate there directly.
“Tinworth.” Ron barely mouthed the word, but the map readjusted itself once again to show the crisscrossing lanes of the small seaside hamlet.
One step closer, but would he be exposing himself in a village frequented by other wizards? “I need to find their house.”
The map seemed to blink, there was no other way to describe it as all the lanes glowed faintly for a split second.
With renewed confidence, Ron whispered, “Shell Cottage.”
Much to his amazement, a faint line of footsteps snaked their way into the adjoining countryside as they followed a meandering path along the coastline. At a small inlet labeled, Dragon Cove, the footsteps turned towards the cliff face.
Easy enough to remember, Ron decided. He’d just have to depend upon finding some sort of sign post, but it was definitely better than waiting about here. Harry and Hermione would certainly not return to this area anytime soon and it was doubtful they’d welcome him back anyway. He’d just have to hope that Bill hadn’t yet set a Fidelius Charm.
With the map’s image firmly planted in his mind, Ron cleared his thoughts of any emotions that would cloud his concentration. The Deluminator grew almost hot in his fist as he repeated to himself: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, Deluminator.
He didn’t know what made him add the fourth D at the end, but it seemed inordinately right for once. When the tightness constricting his body relaxed, Ron took a hesitant breath of cold, salty air.
He cracked his eyes open to a desolate landscape in varying shades of grey The stiff wind threatened to snatch the very strands of his hair as it swirled them into a coppery halo. Bending over against the gale, Ron inched his way towards the sole landmark: a large pockmarked boulder that hovered at the top of a small rise.
The ocean was nothing but whitecaps in the distance as he attempted to survey his surroundings. Although the biting sea spray made it difficult to open his eyes beyond mere slits, he could discern that the faint track beneath his feet wound down the other side. Carved into a stone marker in the lee of the boulder, an arrow pointed to Dragon Cove.
The winds muted themselves once he worked his way down the escarpment, allowing Ron to pick his way carefully among broken bits of sharp oyster shells. Amid the monochrome landscape, their silvery insides glowed to mark the way as the early winter gloom set in by mid-afternoon.
If Bill was surprised to see his dripping little brother standing on the doorstep, he didn’t show it. Instead, Fleur wrapped him in a warm blanket before the roaring fire as she poured him a bracing cup of tea. He declined her offer of cognac as she examined his injured fingertips.
“Aren’t you protected by the Fidelius Charm?” he blurted as soon as the worst of his shivering had subsided.
“Thankfully, things haven’t deteriorated to that point -- yet,” Bill attested.
“You’re wondering eef any stranger could find us just as you deed,” Fleur cooed as she laid a plate of toasted scones at his elbow.
“Well, yeah! I mean if a tosser like me can find Dragon Cove…”
Ron’s words faded out as Bill threw back his head and issued a hearty laugh. “Hardly! That marker’s spelled so only friends and family can find it.”
“Do not fret about your nails, Ron,” Fleur soothed as she laid a gentle kiss on his brow. “Zey will grow back on zere own, given time. Just soak zem in teez tincture of dittany to ease ze sting from ze salt air.”
The small curl about Ron’s lips felt singularly unfamiliar, as if his facial muscles had forgotten the process during those endless days of despair and bickering with Harry.
Recollecting those events of two months ago turned the smile bittersweet. Ever since he’d heard Hermione’s voice coming from the Deluminator in the middle of the night, Ron couldn’t help feeling that he’d left a task undone. Perhaps, he’d imaged the entire incident, but what did it really matter?
Just as it hardly mattered that he’d been struggling vainly to find the heartening words of another Potterwatch broadcast on the wireless -- even though he knew that even the most dedicated dissidents would be with their last scraps of family on Christmas Eve.
How was Ted Tonks faring? he couldn’t help but wonder. Bill had artfully relayed Ron’s encounter by pretending to have overheard a group at Gringott’s discussing their former co-worker, Griphook. Tonks had been heartened without Bill betraying Ron’s involvement.
Bill had also told Ron how Remus had tried his best to recruit him to assist with Potterwatch. He was unsure whether his duties at Gringott’s would interfere so he’d promised Remus he would get back to him. The unspoken words were only too clear to Ron: just because you’ve abandoned one segment of the struggle for freedom doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get involved in another.
That had been at the huge Winter Solstice celebration his mother had cooked up at the last minute. Ron suspected it was more of a way to welcome Ginny home for the holiday break, but it had drawn everyone to the Burrow. He’d begged off, of course, but it had taken all of Ron’s powers of persuasion to convince Bill and Fleur to attend. With owls begin intercepted regularly, who knew when they’d get another opportunity to see Tonks.
Not only had Bill returned with Ginny’s update, but also with the happy news that Remus and Tonks had reconciled and were happily sharing Andromeda’s guestroom. Fleur was practically gushing about how Tonks was radiant with the fullness of pregnancy upon her. The leading looks she tossed in Bill’s direction made Ron think that it wouldn’t be too long before he himself became an uncle.
Bill had been relieved that Remus had not asked any specific questions about Harry. Luckily, his apprehension about facing Remus’ renowned deductive powers were unrealized. Instead, the conversation had limited itself to the pervasive belief that if You-Know-Who’s forces had captured Harry, or any of the wayward trio, their trumpet section would be out in full force.
Nonetheless, Remus’ concern for Harry was abundantly clear as the man dedicated a portion of each Potterwatch episode to making a direct entreaty over the airwaves. Anyone familiar with Remus’ studied stoicism could see how desperately the man sought to mend things between them. As difficult as it might be, it was something Harry needed to hear for himself. Too bad he had no way to learn of the next password or even of the existence of the program itself.
Well, perhaps something could be done about that, Ron decided. After all, if Tonks could forgive Remus for abandoning her during her pregnancy, surely Harry and Hermione might give even him another chance.
But despite the decision that had slowly been growing in Ron’s chest for the past week, he still had no ruddy idea how to find them. Attempts to get the Delumintor to perform another minor miracle had fallen flat despite all the maps that Ron had found in Bill’s study. The contraption would snatch all the lights on the first click and then release them with the second. Nothing else. It had not glowed or felt warm until this very morning when Hermione’s voice had spoken Ron’s name.
As if it, too, recognized the voice, Ron decided, the Deluminator had behaved in a unique fashion. After swallowing the bedroom lights, the second click caused them to coalesce into a blue planetoid which floated through the windowpane. It hovered at sash height in an inviting fashion as if waiting for Ron’s comprehension to dawn.
As he turned his back on the sunrise, he could still see a bluish hint issuing from the dark shadows on the far side of the cottage. Uncertain how he knew that the time had come, Ron worked his way back inside the kitchen to find Fleur preparing breakfast for a still yawning Bill.
“So you’ve come to share our love for zee unbridled sea, no?” his sister-in-law inquired as she gave him the ritual kisses which he’d come to accept.
“Doesn’t seem like Christmas without the last scrap of Mum’s fruitcake,” Ron replied as he slid into a seat next to Bill.
“Sorry I couldn’t get more, mate,” Bill replied. “You know how Mum’s suspicious mind works.”
It was bad enough that Fleur and Bill had made excuses that they wanted to spend their first married Christmas together just so he wouldn’t be left alone. Perhaps if he left early, they could still make supper at the Burrow with all those delicious holiday leftovers. Ron’s stomach growled in agreement as Fleur placed one of her famous omelets before him.
“Eet up while eet’s ‘ot,” she urged as she took the seat across from him. “Zee Christmas feast will be a few ‘ours yet.”
Clearing his throat nervously, Ron began, “That’s what I need to talk to you about. I think I have to leave. Today. To get back to Harry and Hermione.”
“On Christmas?” Bill protested.
“My timing’s rubbish, I know,” Ron admitted hollowly. “But I might not get another opportunity.” Briefly he explained the strange behavior of the Deluminator and how the warmth had not faded away as before.
“You think this may be the window you’ve been waiting for,” Bill summarized.
“Yeah. Actually made my mind up that it was the right thing to do days ago, but…”
“Ah, zee meal of blackest crow,” Fleur commiserated. “We will meez you at zee dinner table.”
“Perhaps it’s not too late for you to go to the Burrow,” Ron whispered in Bill’s ear as he rose to his feet.
As Ron took the stairs up to his bedroom two at a time, Bill’s voice rang out from the kitchen below, “Say, sweetheart, why don’t we detour past the Burrow after we clean up?”
“Just show up on zee doorstep unannounced?” Fleur’s voice was full of indecision as Ron felt around for his rucksack.
The morning rays had not yet worked their way past the steeply pitched roofline and the room was in deep shadow. He didn’t dare relight the lamps for fear of losing his one opportunity to redeem himself. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim blue that still poured in from the garden, he quickly located his meager belongings.
“Mum always makes enough to feed an army,” Bill cajoled. “We could say you burned the turkey and chestnuts.”
“With sausage stuffing, not zee bread filling,” Fleur reminded him.
“Can you store it in the cold box until tomorrow, dearest?”
“Oui, anozer day of marinating een zee white wine will only make eet more juicy,” Fleur concurred as she warmed up to the idea.
Was it his imagination or had the blue sphere begun to pulse in urgency? Or joy? It was difficult to say for certain; but Ron was almost finished digging the last of his things from under the bed.
“Mum will see fit to regale you with mountains of cooking advice,” Bill cautioned.
“I zink I can manage, cher,” Fleur replied in a light-hearted tone. “Converzation wiz your mozer eez always pleazant; eet will ‘elp to drown out zee ‘orrible bruit from zee wireless.”
Ron clomped unceremoniously down the stairs to say his final farewells. As he hugged his brother with all his might, Fleur zipped a fragrant bundle into his rucksack from behind.
“ ‘ot cross buns for zee journey,” she trilled as she kissed his cheeks for the second time that morning. “Enough to share wiz zee ozers.”
“Be sure to give Harry and Hermione our best,” Bill implored.
“Only if you find some way to let it slip to Mum that you’ve had news of us “ and we’re fine. I can’t bear to --” Ron’s words lodged in his throat and he was unable to go on.
“I’ll find a way that won’t compromise either of us,” Bill promised with a crooked grin.
“Thanks again,” Ron called with a final wave from the bottom of the front steps.
The blue mass glided past him and down the path, wordlessly entreating him to follow. Eyes glued to the swirling blue vortex at the center, Ron eased his way behind the garden shed. Trusting to his instincts, he allowed the light to encompass him as the warmth spread to his very fingers. With it came the realization that, for once, he knew exactly what needed to be done and how to rejoin his friends.
Satisfied that he had also managed to sort things with his brother and sister-in-law, Ron surrendered himself to the Apparition instructions whirling about inside his head.
Forgotten in his haste, the last chocolate frog lay abandoned on the bedside cabinet.